‘I prefer actions over words, so I’ll keep this concise,’ the little dictator says, circling the statue of his son, drizzling his fingertips over the marble, ‘You killed my son; you owe me a life-debt. There is a single use for you, here in the Fatherland. The moment your usefulness expires, we’ll proceed to the equalisation. I’m going to even our levels of pain, little girl. I’ll share with you the experience of having your child taken away. Then I will personally end you myself.’
His people pass me in a chain and manhandle me while they use bicycle padlocks to bind my ankles, then tie my elbows behind my back.
I’m tipped on my side and carried like a rolled-up rug down to the museum’s ground floor.
There is a children’s room with bright carpet, books, little stools, and buckets of toy
